Sunday, July 31, 2016

I woke with a start, not realizing that I had dozed off,
fearful at once I was dead, but no. My breath came in ragged gulps but it came.
They were gone. I listened in the dark
for a noise, any sound at all, but there was nothing but the sound of my heart
pounding in my ears. I needed food, water, and most of all sleep, but beyond
the door of my bedroom was either life or death, and on this side of it, for
now, was life. I held up my hand and I could see the outline of it, see the
fingers of my hand and the darkness outside was less than it had been a few
heartbeats ago. I hoped that the light was that of lanterns, perhaps, but I
knew that was false hope, wild imagination, and hopeless. All was hopeless.
There might be a dawn today but tomorrow there would certainly not be. I held
up my hand again and flexed my fingers. Yes, there was more light now, and I
wondered how it felt when a condemned man looked out of his cell and saw the
rope where he would be hanged? How many men had strained to see the rope,
knowing that as soon as dawn arrived they would die, and knowing that if they
could see the rope, then dawn was nigh, and so was death.

How many times had I rented a room above the square, with a
good view of the gibbet, and listened to the sound of the felines mewling for
their meal, disinterested in the life of the man about to die, and watching
only the process? And what a process that it was! The cell of the condemned was
situated in front of the wooden steps so that the condemned might step out of
the cell and onto the first step. The best room was even with the chains, yet a
full story above them, and I usually was able to secure book there. I would
stay up all night, writing about what I saw, and felt, if there were some of
those wronged by the condemned that would gather to taunt or ridicule or curse
him. Some piled firewood and brambles high and heated the chains. The condemned
might plead of beg for mercy but more often he would retreat back into the cell
and wait and wait and wait. I waited for the light of day so I might live and
they hoped for darkness for the same reason. I knew now what it meant that the
turning of one into the other, darkness into day or day into darkness, meant
the same wait.

Of all the men I saw die there only Earl Putman fought them.
He wasn’t the largest man I had seen nor did he look the part of someone who might
escape by sheer force alone, but Putman fought for his life and he fought hard.
Twice they dragged him up the steps and twice he fought his way to leap down
and only the crowd restrained his flight. The third time he was knocked
unconscious by one of the jailers but they waited for his return to reason
before reading the writ of execution. A man named Dawa, who held no surname, or
no first name, cursed in some noisome language and even when he was screaming
in agony he seemed to be articulating the curse. Dawa was convicted of killing a child, and no
one knew what country from which he hailed, or what language he spoke, but he
was dark of skin and wooly of hair, and wore the tanned skins of some beasts
that lived far from our own shores.He
screamed for his gods or his devils but his skin was no different than any
others when the time came, only his voice. Nearly all went meekly and fearful,
shaking and sobbing, to their final end.

And now I curse my idle curiosity, and my writing, and the
newspapers who printed my stories of the men who, one by one, make my living. I
fed off of their misery and spoke of the moment that each of them realized that
the process, the unfolding of their lives’ end was now, at that second in time,
and each of them faced it in some way that cried out as their own. Yes, I lied
about some of those moments, and I created out of my own head some of the
events, and I made sport of those who blubbered or fell to their knees to be
led like dogs to their deaths. Yes, I did all of this, and more also, but those
sins did not reach out to me. Those sins would have waited for some judgement
that I might have repented long before my time was due, but I wanted more than
just to observe these men and record and create their stories. I wanted to
speak to them after they had died and I wanted to tell the world that I had
done so. Now I can and I will, but I fear the written word will be all that is
found of me when it is over.

I spent money, good money, money I had made in watching
death come to the condemned to find anyone and everyone I could that might open
the door to death so I might look inside. Immigrants from the darkest corners
of the world I interrogated and cajoled. Always hoping that I might find
someone who knew how to speak to the dead and how I might find those I had
written about, I haunted the opium dens and the drunken dives. Always there
were candles and smoke and incense and nothing more than silver thrown away for
a show. I learned that there were many people wishing to speak to the dead;
their sons, daughters, husbands, wives, lovers, but none spoke back with any
accuracy. Years passed. Men died screaming. And my work grew to the point I was
recognized on the street by strangers. I exposed fakers and seers and those who
threw bones on the ground for what they were and men died knowing I might
enhance their story or belittle it.

Hubris.The arrogance
of the man who was well liked by others begins to believe there is something
good and worthy of this admiration. I knew at once who was a charlatan or a
faker, or so I thought. I treated those who came to me with disdain, for I
already knew there would be no speaking to the dead, but I wanted it known that
I looked. What price to be paid, I never gave it a thought in passing, for
trespassing into the land where only the dead reside? I tossed pennies to those
who burned feathers and jerked upon the floor, and I wrote of their ineptness
and worthlessness.

Never, in all the turbaned brown skinned and colored scarf
wearing Gypsies, was I ever asked if I knew there might be danger in what I was
doing. A man appeared one day, and he was one of the most outlandish yet, with
his rawhide clothing and his wide hat that nearly covered his eyes, he was the
one who asked directly, “Do you know what to do if you open the door?” And I
assured him the silver was of the best quality and he could take my price or he
could leave it. He nodded and spoke no more. Days later he returned with a
simple wooden key, fashioned out of some twisted vine, most cleverly, and it
seemed to sparkle if I turned it in the light or disappear of made of darkness
itself. I marveled at this so when he asked me where I would retreat to, if I
had some need. I answered him directly, before I thought of my words and told
him there was a house in the hills, in a small village of Baden, where my grandfather
once owned a mill. He told me that the dead would speak to me, but I could only
tarry in the graveyard for as long as the key burned. Once it burned out, I
would be at their mercy. He stopped and looked at me with one eye squinted and
said, “Ye cannot sleep with the dead at your door. In the light of day they
return to the grave but at full dark they will come to you, and in your sleep
they will take you away to their world and there you will not die, but you will
live with the dead, until time ends” and with that he turned on his heel and looked
back not at all.

Now, even as I write this, I realize that the condemned man
Tawa, at his trial, was dressed like the man who sold me the key. They drape
the condemned in white cloth before the execution, but now, now I realize where
I had seen that manner of clothing before they had draped him. I took the key
to the graveyard where the remains of those I had written about were buried and
struck a match to it. Instantly, without warning there were dozen, perhaps
hundreds of voices, and I felt myself in a whirl wind yet I could hear each one
distinct. Yes, that one I watched die, and that one, of course, he yelped in
pain, and this one, I remember well, laughed with hysteria in his cell all
night, and this one, oh yes, he was proved innocent less than a week after his
burial. I tried to remember their words, I tried to put faces and names to the
tales and then I looked down and the key had long since turned to ash.

Yet none of them threatened me. None of them made any move
to laugh or mock me. I left the cemetery at dawn for they retreated before the
light of the sun. I went back to my home and slept. But as soon as the sun left
he sky they appeared in my room and they spoke without ceasing. I grew weary of
writing, of trying to record the waterfall of words, and I nearly dozed off
late that night. Instantly, I felt as if someone were stuffing a dry sheet down
my throat. I awoke with the start but the voices did not stop. To sleep was to
die and to join them, yet not dead. I waited the dawn with an urgency.

I slept until noon and then rented a carriage and four
horses. To the mill house I drove the horses, all of the day and all through the
night, with the voices and the wind whipping at me.I
stopped for nothing. I could hide here, I thought, gather my senses, then try to
find someone to remove the curse. It would take time, surely, but it would not
be impossible. With the stories of the dead to support me, I could make enough
coin to hire those who might search for the man who had cursed me, and perhaps
buy him to remove it. I drove the horses until dawn and collapsed upon a dusty
bed. I was already fatigued and when I awoke there was a light in the east and
in the west. Confused, I went to the window to see the sun setting in the west.
This was a dire sight for I was still tired. But to the east there was a sight
to paralyze my senses; someone had set aflame the only bridge leading away from
the mill house. The river could not be forded for many miles to the north. I
went outside and watched the flames grow and then saw the barn door had been
opened. The horses were gone. It would take many days now, and many nights, for
me to travel to the city again. I had little provisions and no one lived near
this place. I was trapped.

So now I write the words you read here. I wait for dawn to
arrive so I might leave. They are here but they have fallen silent. They know
my plight and they wait to collect me. I might wander the woods until lost,
starve, become injured, but I had to stay awake. Now, with the coming of the
dawn, I realize what the words of the man meant, that if they take me I will
remain with them. I must not be taken. In the barn there is a rope, a rope very
much like the one seen by the condemned at dawn, and I intend to use it as
such.

Saturday, July 30, 2016

The base of the water Oak. I had to make the cut 1.25 meters above ground level.

Limbs and trees have been dropping but the temperatures keep
rising. This is an unparalleled opportunity in exhaustion and I’ve taken full
advantage of it. Basically, the idea comes down to this one; cut as much as I
can with an axe until I get too tired or too hot or both, and not kill myself. I’ve
always believed you have to dare your environment to kill you. You have to face
the worst you can find where you live and find a way to prosper within it. You
cannot allow where you live to dictate to you when you can do or what you can
do. The only way to survive is to get out into the worst heat and do your best.

Live Oaks are the hardest wood I have ever tried to cut. The
meat of the Live Oak is tough and dulls an axe quickly. The limb that fell out
of the Live Oak tree took forever to break down and I took long water breaks. I
also stayed outside with the heat and the stinging flies. Slowly, but surely,
the limb was reduced to bonfire fodder. Not that it didn’t put up a fight, mind
you, but anything can be eaten one bite at a time.

Recently, because I work all the time and because I really
don’t have the time to cook the meals I should be eating, my jeans have been
getting tighter. Using an axe every day for exercise has made my jeans expand
and I think my arm muscles are getting bigger as well. In just over a week or
do I feel better, I’m more active and I sleep better. I’m hitting the trees at
least an hour a day and sometime much longer than that.

Better have a sharpener handy if you’re going to work out
with an axe. The difference is as stark as driving a car with or without a
windshield. If your axe isn’t sharp you’re basically trying to beat an Oak tree
into submission which by anyone’s standards is a fool’s errand. While we are at
it, Live Oak is easier alive than dead. The wood is softer when it still has
life in it. Trying to cut this stuff when it is dead is like trying to cut
iron.

The first limb down was some sort of Oak, Red Oak, I think,
and it went without a fight. The next was Live Oak, and it was a bitch to get
it bucked. The third limb was the biggest challenge. The top broke off a water
oak and fell over into a neighboring tree. Water Oaks are very tall yet very
skinny. There are usually no large branches and therefore there’s little to
discern as far as a lean goes. This one was no different. The first thing that
had to be done was taking out the main trunk and hoping the top fell anywhere
but on top of me.

You either get it or you do not get it. If you are going to
sit there at your computer and wonder what Demon possessed me to take down a
tree with the top half broke of and hanging onto another tree then you don’t
get it. What were my options? Wait until it fell on its own and perhaps killed
me or one of the dogs? Rented the risk out to a professional? With temperatures
topping out over triple digits I walked up to the main truck of the broken tree
and began.

Water Oaks are an odd species of tree for they are thick at
the base and then go thin and high. I’ve never seen one that lived as long as
most tree do and I suspect this one had gotten as large as most. If things were
not already as bad as they might be, just like the limb from the Live Oak, the
water oak had fallen against a dead limb which meant that it might bring down
more than itself when it fell, or if I left it to its own devices. The meat of
a water oak is slight spongy and gets worse when the tree dies.

It's easier to cut a water oak if the axe is used to cut in horizontal
strips rather than going for the classic vee shaped cut. The meat of the tree
comes out of the cut in chucks rather easily compared to the Live Oak yet
because there is half a tree hanging over the South side of the cut I cannot
cut around the tree. I have to cut the west side as much as I can, the north
side as deep as I can, the east side very little, and the South side not at
all.

And yes, I did try to pull the hanging part of the tree down
with a rope, thanks for thinking of that for me.

The rope is important to me because I really have very
little idea which way the pressure lies in this. If the main trunk falls north,
where I am doing most of the cutting, the leaning part of the tree might well slide
north too, or be dragged in that direction. There is little chance it will fall
South but it could and who knows where the hanging part would go then? West
seems best with the hanging part being dragged along and falling that way. I
think it will fall north and the hanging part will simply fall to the east and
stay hung up in the other tree. But I’m using a rope to pull it when it gets
close.

When will it get close, I have to ask myself. The cuts on
the west and north meet, the cut on the east, what little I dare, deepens, yet
the tree does not relent. What manmade object could have ninety percent of its
support cut away and still be immovable much less standing tall? The heat takes
a toll on me as does swinging the axe, again and again and again. An hour
passes, and then another, yet the tree remains. I get a ping from the woman
watching me from a distance; it is time to stop tempting South Georgia to kill
me. I have to admit fatigue is setting in deeply.

I go inside and I’m still panting. I drink a liter of cold
water and sweat is still pouring off of me. I can feel the muscles in my back
and in my arms. I can feel the strain on my knees and ankles. This is
tremendous exercise but I wonder if I have over done it. My hands hurt from
handling the axe. Yoga cures all of this, except for the part there is still a
tree out there, of which half is hanging over the heads of my dogs when they
walk near it.

After work the next day the tree is still standing but the
cuts look a lot deeper. I think it will fall east or west, and after a half
hour of cutting I take my first break and consider what is happening. The tree
is beginning to shudder with each stroke of the axe and I know now the end is
very near. I put a rope on it and it wiggles like a loose tooth when pulled to
the east. I reorient myself west of the tree and pull. The tree’s last ten
percent of life cracks with the strain and I can tell it’s over. Pull, pull,
pull, and finally the tree falls towards me and I release the rope. The hanging
part doesn’t fall down with its parent but now leans against the other tree.
More axe work tomorrow.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

The interesting thing about exhaustion it whereas it should
bring a hard and restful sleep, having dogs that spent the day out in the sun
with you brings dogs that vomit up the grass they spent the day eating. Both
Cousin dogs graze until they have baseball sized bales of hay inside of their
stomachs that can only come forth after midnight, and can only be expelled by
making noises that sounds like a drunk man puking up his soul at Norte Dame
during the baptism of a banshee. This causes me to have to get up and clean the
mess up, which they do have the decency to do on hardwood floors, not carpet,
and of course, this earns them a trip outside where they can puke out the rest
on the deck instead of the yard. One day some stoned hippie is going to find
one of these bales and roll a joint or two out of it, and after smoking it,
while have visions of Lassie pushing Timmy into a well and then puking on him
with psychedelic vomit drifting down while sparkling.

I had a dream last night that comes and goes depending on
whether or not I’m trying to remember or just letting things flow, and I cannot
put my mind on who was in it. “You said something, that was really important”
It’s a distraction, the dream is, and perhaps it will get here in time.

There’s three pieces of three different trees on the ground
I have to get to the firepit, or just leave them where they are, and there’s to
harm in leaving them, but to get them to the firepit means an impressive fire.
I like fire. However, transporting them in one piece apiece means a lot of work
and cutting them into pieces means a lot of work. The idea that space aliens or
some sort of advanced civilization built the Pyramids or Stonehenge or the
statues on Easter island was thought up by people who have never been
physically exhausted from hard work. One, once you’ve tackled a giant piece of
wood, to cut it or to move it, you know damn well how much mass one human being
can affect. No, it is not easy, but it is possible. Two, once you’ve done it,
there’s sort of a thing inside of you that makes you want to do more. Can you do
it? Can it be done? If it cannot be done, how close can you get to getting it
done and can you get someone else in there with you, in the heat, the grime,
the sweat, the physical effort to build a bigger fire?

Don’t sell your body short. Don’t sell your determination
short. Get out there under the worst conditions and put some effort into moving
something most people don’t think can be moved by one person and move the damn
thing. Worry it to death, move it an inch a day, cut a toothpick off it each hour,
but as long as you’re flailing away you aren’t failing. You cannot fail as long
as your body is getting stronger through what you’re doing. Moving a piece of a
tree a two hundred meters may not be something you can talk about to people and
impress them like you’ve build Stonehenge, but this isn’t about impressing
anyone else but you. After you drag and hack and push and pull something like
that through the woods, in July, in the middle of the day, what exactly will
daunt you physically? After that, helping someone get a long sofa up a high
stairwell isn’t going to make you flinch.

Where are your limits? They’re either in front of you where
you can see them or they are behind you, where you left them.

I remember the dream now, oddly, and I was moving into an
apartment that was underground yet in a city. There were two sets of
apartments, separated by a narrow space, and I had an apartment alone, the one
on the right, but when I returned to move in my keys fit the one on the left,
and there was a giant man with a green beard in and another guy I don’t
remember. The dream shifted a lot, and there was a lot of odd technology in it,
as if I was in the future, but it is also very fragmented.

Damn, it would seem I’ve talked myself into moving three
really big pieces of wood, or reducing them, in the worst part of the Summer.
There isn’t any hope of finding anyone who wants to get out in the heat and
work their body into exhaustion so there can be a fire on the coldest day of
the year, but my grass eating canines will keep me company for the most part. I
think I’ll start with those out by the pond, in the thicket, that I have to
move all the way to the gate, and then back down to the firepit. The Leaner is
going to go last, and that piece of a tree that is just hanging in midair will
have to go first. Ah, living in the woods is like living in a gym made of fuel
for a fire.Really

I’m going to need a few things; a new axe sharpener, and
maybe one of those two headed axes, I have always wanted one, a better rope than
I have, certainly, and I need a heavy duty winch or come along.

Exercise equipment for the body and soul is found in moving
large things. When humans decide to make the effort to do it good things can
happen or just things can happen, but where there is no quit in the soul the
body will follow. By limits will be defined not by what I cannot do but merely
what I have not done yet. I have a lot of Summer left, and a lot of long days
in this Summer, and a lot of sweat still in my body.

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About Me

The Non Disclaimer

My writing reflects the things I see, think, and experience, and those things in my past that have led me to be me. It is not always pretty, it is not always funny, and no one has ever made mention of my life as a Disney Movie. If sex, drugs, profanity, or a general irreverence for all things religious somehow offends you, well, there are other blogs which will satisfy your need for self assurance.